


a shot in the dark, aimed right at my throat

by cerie



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie/pseuds/cerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during 4x01 "Tempus," James Watson comforts the 1890s version of Helen after John Druitt threatens her.  Warning: non explicit mention of violence against women and potential sexual abuse.  Written for Sam and Cee, who always prompt Dr. Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a shot in the dark, aimed right at my throat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbes/gifts).



James doesn’t like keeping things from Helen if only because she’s had enough of hurt and lies with John Druitt over the years and he wants to be something she can depend upon, a touchstone, a constant. He supposes keeping her future self a secret from her current self isn’t so terrible a lie, in the scheme of things, but he wants nothing more than to tell her. He doesn’t _want_ her to become that twisted, harsh visage of Helen with dark hair and haunted eyes and he wants, however futile it may be, for Helen to remain untouched and golden throughout the years.

Still, Helen is Helen, and her secret is safe. The ghost from the future’s gone out hunting against his better judgment and James is on the way to his private study when he runs into _his_ Helen, her face stricken and pale and eyes full of fear. That look, that tremble, it can only mean one thing and it explains perfectly why the other Helen’s gone out hunting: John Druitt. He’s been here and he’s frightened her and there’s simply nothing James can do about the situation but offer what small comforts he can.

It’s not like Helen to be overly emotional, not really, but she’s distraught at the moment and James lays his hands at her waist, steadying her. He kisses her forehead softly and is rewarded when she folds into his arms. She’s not quite sobbing, not yet, but she’s close and he slides one of his hands up to gently cup the back of her head in what he hopes is a soothing and comforting gesture for her and not just himself.

He cannot protect her from John. John is faster, stronger and, James would argue, much more cunning. He cannot do anything but pick up the pieces after he’s gone and it makes him feel impotent in a way little else does. Still, the fact that Helen trusts him to do even this much is an honor for James and when her trembles cease somewhat, he draws back to tangle her fingers in his and draw her hand up to brush his lips against her knuckles.

“Come, darling, let’s get something to soothe your nerves and put you to bed. There’s no need to discuss what happened.”

Something in her eyes gives him pause, though, the barest flicker of that Helen that he knows she will become someday and she shakes her head. There’s steel and strength in Helen Magnus, even when she’s been shaken to her core, and it’s one of the things he’s always admired about her and, if he were given to analyze himself, the thing that sets her apart from every other woman of the age. It’s fascinating, thrilling and, James isn’t afraid to admit, utterly intoxicating.

“No, no. I’d rather talk about it,” Helen says softly and James nods, sliding an arm around her protectively to help her up the stairs. They’ve been...together, more or less, for a few months now but never in that time has he ever asked her how bad things were with Druitt. He knows Druitt’s violent, the deaths are proof enough of that, but he’s never known to what extent the madman turned that violence on Helen. James knows from his studies of forensics that the loved ones of murderers are not always immune to their darkness and he hopes, however in vain, that he hasn’t harmed Helen.

More powerful or no, James couldn’t suffer John Druitt to live if he ever lifted a hand to Helen, now or in the past. He has the sinking feeling he’s about to find out something he never wanted to know.

Normally, James would call for tea to be brought up to help calm Helen down but he suspects that tonight calls for sterner stuff. It’s brandy, then, and when he’s poured two fingers into a low, crystal tumbler and pressed it into her hands, she’s still trembling. He wants nothing more than to make that trembling cease without having to hear what’s caused it but James tamps that down in order to help her and ease her troubles, if only for a night.

Helen drinks quickly and brushes her hand back against her lips before speaking, voice soft and clear in spite of the nerves beneath it. She’s calm, at least, and James feels that’s important to know. _He’s_ made her calm. It’s heady, in a strange way, and he wishes he wouldn’t get so caught up in his own head about it so he can just focus on her and her needs.

“John threatened me. He laid a knife against my throat and I feared he meant to assault me but something gave him pause. Perhaps a flicker of the man he once was? I cannot say. I am...physically unharmed, I assure you, just frightened. He does not always stop at a threat and a few words and I feared the worst.”

The mere thought of it makes him livid. James has seen that side of humanity more times than he can count: rape, murder, violence. The idea that it had happened to _Helen_ , seemingly under his nose, that’s too much to think about. Where was he? How had he missed the signs? How many times had Helen worn a high necked gown or long gloves...had she been hiding bruises? Were there others that he’d never seen beneath her clothes? How much of this had Helen carried alone?

“Has he escalated before?” The words are thick in his throat and his heart sinks like a stone when she nods and casts her eyes down. It’s all that James needs to know, he hardly wants the details, and he extends a hand to her to draw her to her feet and into his arms. Helen seems to know this dance, even without words, and tucks her head in against his chest. James is content to hold her for as long as she might need and when they break apart, it’s because Helen moved, not him.

Perhaps it might have been strange for Helen to be in his bedroom years ago but now it’s familiar, if not common. They don’t normally share a bed after making love, not overnight anyway, but Helen seems like she wants to stay tonight. It’s something James would prefer, considering Druitt, and he’s grateful for the revolver in his bedside table should the other man choose to teleport in on their heads.

Helen is struggling with her clothes and James crosses the room and sets his hands gently at her shoulders and rubs lightly. His voice is low and soft when he leans down and presses his lips against her ear, half a kiss and half a whisper.

“Allow me, Helen. Let me comfort you, please?”

For half a moment, James wonders if this does comfort her. He knows what Helen has become in her future and she’s hard, brittle, different. She’s lonely, he can tell, and he wonders if that’s all damage done to her by John Druitt or if others had a hand, if _he_ had a hand. He decides swiftly that in this moment, he doesn’t care, and he’d rather focus on making _his_ Helen feel good once more. Her dress is high-necked with a long row of buttons along the back and as he undoes each and the fabric parts to bare her skin, he lays a kiss there. 

Undressing her is normally a routine, if time-consuming, affair but tonight, James tries to think of it as the first time he’s done this dance with her. He keeps his fingers light, if nimble, against her stays and once she is naked before him, he cups her chin lightly and merely looks at her, taking her in. She’s radiant, always has been, and he suspects she might need to hear it tonight. There’s tears shining in her eyes when he presses his lips to hers and before he pulls away, he whispers against her mouth.

“You are, and always will be, the most stunning woman I have ever seen. I love you, Helen Magnus. Until the end of my days.”

Her lashes sweep shut and hide from him the tears welling and it’s just as well. If she cried, he wouldn’t be able to bear it, and as it is he wants to undo some of the hurt that John Druitt’s caused her today. He can’t undo all of it, no, and this isn’t the best method to go about it but all James knows to do is love her. Cherish her. Be the man that John Druitt had been and should still be because, no matter how James feels about her, he knows her heart lies with Druitt. It always has. 

Except, somehow, there’s a shift in her and when her eyes open once more, they’re softer and more full of love and adoration for _him_ than they ever have been. The Helen she becomes, someday, is hardened and immune to Druitt from what he can tell but this Helen, though still pricked by her first love, seems to be moving on. It’s fascinating but it’s not something James wants to ponder in this moment.

In this moment, there is but Helen and James and he takes his time taking her hair down and laying the pins down on his valet. That done, he catches her hand, and draws her down into bed to sit with her back against his chest. He parts her hair into sections and starts brushing it, slow strokes until her hair is glossy and burnished gold. He loves her hair and it looks like the mythical Danae’s shower, like sunlight spilling into his lap. She’s quiet now but it’s not an uncomfortable silence, at all, and once all her hair is brushed and gleaming, he kisses the crown of her head.

“He can’t hurt you any longer. I assure you, Helen, I never knew, and I hate myself for being so blind.”

She doesn’t respond except the barest of trembles and James draws her hair over one smooth, pale shoulder so that he can kiss along her neck. He draws his hands up to cup her breasts and the heavy weight of them is familiar even this night, when he wants to engage the dance as something new. He scrapes his teeth against the tender spot where her neck and shoulder join and, as he does so, he draws his thumbs against her nipples and feels them tighten at the attention. She’s so responsive, the most responsive partner he’s ever had, and it’s intoxicating for a man as focused on the minutiae as he so often is.

He nips at her skin, just hard enough to leave a mark and when she gasps, he soothes it with his tongue and does it again. After a few more moments, she squirms in his arms and he lifts one of her thighs to lay her leg over his and spread her out for more of his attention. It’s strange perhaps, playing with her this way, but James has one arm around her waist to hold her close, his lips against her neck and his fingers can play between her thighs and bring her pleasure without making her feel exposed or, worse, making it about him.

Tonight, it’s not about him. James thinks it may never be about him, not solely.

She’s slick and slightly swollen and when his fingers brush against her clitoris, Helen drops her head back to his shoulder and shifts down so that he has more access. He wants to bring her off this way so there’s no expectation for a return and, once she’s come, he wants to spread her out on the bed beneath him and make her come again beneath his lips and tongue. He wants, desperately, to to be the man that John Druitt can’t, or won’t, be.

He rolls one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger as he touches her, irrationally pleased that it simply makes her slicker for him. He knows it’s just a biological response but he wishes, for once, he could turn off his brain and simply revel in the fact that this amazing woman lets him have her in such intimate and personal ways. When her breath comes in short, shallow gasps, he tugs lightly at her nipple and angles the fingers of his other hand in such a way that he can slip two inside and work her clitoris with the pad of his thumb. He’s rewarded by a keener gasp and her muscles pulsing around his fingers in a tell-tale way. He leaves his fingers there until the fluttering stops and draws his hand away. He moves to wipe his fingers against the sheets when Helen surprises him and catches his hand, drawing his fingers into her mouth to lick and suck her own taste away.

It’s his turn to gasp. “Bloody hell, Helen.”

She turns and straddles his lap and it’s all James can do to slide his hands to her hips as she guides herself down onto his cock. This isn’t a position that usually occurs to him, he much prefers to cover her, but he cannot deny the appeal of seeing her beautiful face and breasts as he moves in her. He won’t last long, not with how worked up he gets bringing her pleasure, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Helen glows with a light sheen of sweat and when he brings one hand down to tease her where they join, she bites her lips and peaks again. It’s not as forceful as before but this time, waves of pleasure drawing up and down his cock, James cannot hold back his own reaction. He arches up to meet her thrust one last time before finishing and it’s like he’s a bow drawn tight before the release finally comes. He’s still panting when Helen leans in and presses her forehead against his, eyes soft and dark from pleasure.

“I love you, James Watson.”

It’s nothing he’d ever expected but he wonders, perhaps, if that’s the other thing he saw in the future Helen’s eyes: love for him, lost and now regained.

He can only hope.


End file.
